


Desperate Caverns Of The Mind

by rufeepeach



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, priest!Gold, priest!porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 07:06:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufeepeach/pseuds/rufeepeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regina had fun, deciding to make the Dark One into a holy man. Now Father Gold has some rather carnal thoughts about a member of his congregation, and Belle French is struggling with an inappropriate attraction to her vicar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desperate Caverns Of The Mind

**Author's Note:**

> I originally refused to post this anywhere for fear of offending someone, or it being too triggery for some people, or upsetting innocent eyes. 
> 
> So here is your warning: while Gold and Belle still have their whole Fairy Tale back story, this story does make Gold a clergyman, and smut does ensue.

The church was almost silent, the footsteps of the one priest left to tend the candles echoing through the high arches of the ceiling, off the small sculptures and stained-glass windows. Father Gold was the only one to volunteer to tend the midnight candles, in the strange Storybrooke tradition, and so here he was, every night, lighting the beacons for the broken and the dead, alone with his thoughts.  
  
His thoughts, these days, were less pure than they ought to be.  
  
Father Gold had never been a lecher, even in the days before he became a man of the cloth, and even if he had been those dreams were behind him. Priests of his order were not forbidden to marry, of course, but he was certain that the kind of thoughts that were all-too-often flitting through his mind these days were not what they should be.  
  
He shouldn’t be distracted while leading the Lord’s Prayer, by the low neckline of Belle French’s Sunday dress, or the soft shine of her hair in the sunlight.  
  
He certainly shouldn’t be thinking about how her mouth formed the words of her prayers silently, slowly, wrapping around each syllable lovingly, her lips curving into that perfect crimson arc as she smiled.  
  
He knew her sweetness, her virtues, but they were not what dominated his thoughts.  
  
If he thought of her on his way home, thought of her soft words, her volunteer work in the animal shelter on her free days, the patience with which she tended her ailing father, with affection or even pride, then he would still be a righteous man.  
  
But it was not her kindness, a fondness for her soul, that drew his thoughts to Belle at night, on his rounds, when he was alone with the saints in the windows and the stones.  
  
No, when he was alone in the golden darkness, Gold’s mind drifted to her long, smooth legs beneath her knee-length sundresses, the swell of her breasts under her thin blouses, and how soft he imagined her mouth would be, opening and gasping under his own.  
  
It was too much to bear, and it was horribly inappropriate, and yet there she was. She was his siren, good and innocent and sweet, and every soft curve of her body, every curl of her hair and emerald fleck in her blue eyes, was a wicked and sinful temptation. He  wanted her, arching and keening under him, crying his name, every inch of her wrapped around him.  
  
He hated every second of the fantasies that played through his mind, even as he ached for her, even as he felt his traitorous body consider reacting.  
  
He did as he always did in these situations: he recited as many psalms as he could remember, tried to remember them in his father’s voice, and reminded himself in between verses that Belle was twenty-five, near-on half his age, and as chaste and innocent as she was beautiful.   
  
Not only did the Lord frown upon his lecherous and selfish desires, but she herself would be horrified with the idea of his lust.  
  
Sooner or later, he would get over this infatuation he nursed for her, and he would be able to look at her without feeling his temperature rise, without wondering after the taste of her lips, the exact pitch of the cries she would make with him buried deep inside her, his hands on every inch of her smooth, pale skin.  
  
He played this same loop of lust and recrimination, of desire and self-loating and repentance, every night he lit the candles.  
  
Until the night when, after nearly being hit by a strange yellow VW Beetle on his way to the Church, he went about lighting the last candle and made his prayer for self-control, and was inturrupted by the creak of the door and a small sound.  
  
“Oh!” A female voice, a sound he had heard a thousand times in the desperate caverns of his mind, and he turned to see the very object of his fantasies stood in the doorway. “Excuse me,” Belle smiled, looked at her demure white sandals, “I didn’t realise anyone would be here.”  
  
“It’s no matter, dear,” he brushed her off, hoped she couldn’t see the darkness in his eyes, the trembling of his hands, “Was there anything you needed?”  
  
She took a few steps inside, wrapping her cardigan closer about herself, and looked at him with a little crease between her brows, such a scared and worried look that he has to put the matches down for fear of dropping a lit flame and setting the place on fire.   
  
“I ah...” she shuffled her feet, seemed entirely unsure of how to proceed, “No. It’s fine, I’m sorry, I should go...”  
  
“No!” he called, and she turned in surprise, but he couldn’t help it. He had her here, alone, and if this one night, one look at her without twenty people in the way and Mayor Mills’ accusing eyes on him, was all that he was granted, then he would make it last. If she needed his help then she would receive it, and he would consider it a divine gift to simply be worthy of her smile. “If there is something on your mind at this time of night, dear,” he reasons, keeping his voice steady through sheer force of will, “Then it needs dealing with.”  
  
“Well...” she sighed, looked at him and chewed her lip. He wished he could do that for her, and mentally flayed himself for the very notion, “I need help... I mean, how do you keep your thoughts... you know, pure?”  
  
And wasn’t that an oddly appropriate and entirely awful question for her, of all people, to ask him?  
  
“Well,” he started, “Many people find prayer to be a good way to remove troubling or upsetting thoughts: God is always there to hear your troubles, even if you cannot say them out loud.”  
  
He was glad he believed in a God who would forgive, because some of his thoughts were too damnable for words.   
  
“That was why I came here,” she admitted, “To try to ask God for help. But then you were here and it’s like it’s some kind of a sign and it’s just...”  
  
“A sign? A sign of what, Belle?”  
  
“Oh, goodness, this is just... it’s so awkward! But you were here and I came for help, and I know it’s a sin, and it’s awful, and I can’t help it but you’re in my head and…”  
  
His self-control snapped clean in half, and he was halfway past her, to the door, before his mind even caught up with the rest of him. Belle French was having impure and troubling thoughts, and they were about _him_. She had come to seek refuge from them in the middle of the night, and found herself alone with him instead.  
  
He had been wrestling with such deeply carnal dreams of her, for so long, and here she was right as he thought of her.  
  
Like divine intervention; like magic.  
  
“Are you... are you throwing me out?” she looked at his hand on the door handle, her lip back between her teeth, and she couldn’t know how frustrating it was for him watching her do that, the action so innocent and so horribly tempting all at once.  
  
He should have. He really should have. His fingers clicked the door handle and, his work complete, he turned back to her, and he had no idea what to do with his hands. He fumbled and fidgeted, and finally settled for taking her slim, cool fingers in his, and watching the play of his rough, hard skin against hers, so pale and soft in comparison.  
  
The touch itself was enough to send his head reeling, every nerve in his body focussed on the points of contact between his body and hers, so simple and sweet and innocent, so horribly and beautifully _real_.  
  
“You locked the door.” she murmured, and he couldn’t tell if the disbelief in her voice overlayed horror or happiness, but he expected the former and didn’t dare dream the latter.  
  
“I did.” he hadn’t even realised it until it was done, but this conversation was one that needed to happen in privacy, and even the church and the middle of the night couldn’t provide the kind of safety a locked and bolted door would.  
  
Her skin danced golden and ivory in the candlelight, and if all he ever had of her was this image, he would consider himself truly blessed.  
  
“You...” she smiled, and oh, that was _happiness_ , strange and utterly impossible as it seemed, she shook her head, as if she herself could not understand what was happening, “You locked the door.”  
  
“I did,” he repeated, with more surety this time, for if one night was all he could ever be allowed, then this was the best of all possible worlds, “What was it you wanted to discuss, dear?”  
  
“I...” she was so close, so very close, they breathed the same air and with one little move forward he could press his nose to hers, nuzzle her cheek with his lips, kiss that cherry-red mouth and find out exactly what she tasted like, “I want you...”  
  
With a soft little moan which either of them could have made, her lips met his and they were kissing furiously, lips and tongue and teeth and a warmth he hadn’t felt in decades, a warmth like summertime and sparkling wine and fireworks.  
  
His hands came around her waist, holding her against him, and oh, her softness was as delicious as he’d imagined, her mouth the most wonderful, addictive, drugging kind of poison.  
  
They staggered up the aisle, her hands tugging gently on his hair, his fingers gripping her hips and flexing, tight and loose. As if he could still break free: as if she didn’t hold him in thrall with the caress of her soft mouth against his, with the tangling of her fingers in his hair and the soft little noises caught in the back of her throat.  
  
She moaned as her back hit the altar, and he held her against it, his mouth slipping from hers to trace the line of her jaw, to suckle the soft, vulnerable skin of her throat. He worried a sensititve spot on the nape of her neck with his teeth, and she gasped, the sound running through him and making him groan.  
  
He needed her so badly it hurt, and she was writhing against him, his hands bunching her skirt around her hips as she hopped up to sit on the altar, drawing his mouth back to hers in a soul-branding, burning kiss.   
  
Her clever hands worked between them as his own mind shut down, every sensation a direct result of her mouth working against his, her tongue stroking the roof of his mouth and her desperate little whimpers, which echoed through the church and sent him reeling.  
  
She had his belt undone and his flies unzipped, and her hand slipped inside, holding him in the palm of her hand, already hard and throbbing for her. Her lips moved from his, kissed along his jaw and met his ear, “You want me, don’t you?”  
  
“Yes,” he groaned, bucking his hips into her hand, and with a few movements of her fingers he was free, and she shifted, her hand moving up, leaving him straining against the soft skin of her inner thigh and her fingers curled in the dark linen of his shirt.  
  
“Then have me.” she whispered, and he was lost, all idea of restraint or propriety, virtue or sin, lost as he thrust into her slowly, growling into the side of her neck and clinging to her as he did.  
  
She was so warm, so wet and hot and tight around him, and he was astonished that she could be so ready for him, that she could possibly want this as much as he did. “I love you,” he murmured, like a secret or a prayer, and she cried out, muffling the sound in his shoulder, “I always have,” he continued, as he started to move, as he kissed her jawline, her chin, her cheeks, any patch of skin he could find with his feverish lips, “I always will, my Belle, my angel...”  
  
“Yes,” she sobbed, wrapping her legs around his middle and clenching hard around him, bucking her hips to meet his slow, deep thrusts, “Yes, I love you too, more every day, I can’t stop, I never will, I love you,” she cried out an ecstatic litiny as he took her against the altar, as he promised heaven and hell and everything in between in thanks for this one moment.  
  
He loved her, more than life or death or stained glass windows, and she loved him too.   
  
And this was wrong, this was damnation and sin, everything he counselled so many against. And yet she wanted him,  loved  him, this pale and perfect girl, and she felt like heaven and tasted like sunlight and if this was wrong, he never wanted to be right again.  
  
His hand clenched and unclenched in her skirts, as the other came up her side to cup her breast under her cardigan, his mouth running down her collarbone to nuzzle the soft space between them, to run his tongue over the swell of her breast as his fingers pinched her nipple through the cotton of her dress.  
  
She cried out, her sounds higher pitched and faster, louder, as his thrusts became harder and her fingers came between them, came under her skirts to where they were joined and rubbed, hard, desperate to come with him. And it wouldn’t be long; he was so close he could feel the muscles tighten in his stomach, every sweet sound drawn from her lips sending pleasure coiling and racing through him.  
  
He felt it, the moment she came: she screamed his name and it echoed through the hall, her muscles clenching so hard around him that he saw stars, her legs holding him against her as she rode out her climax.   
  
He bit down hard on her shoulder, his hands tangled in her hair as he followed, the pleasure and pain too much to bear, as he jerked into her. His release came hard and fast, so he saw stars and forgot even his own name, only hers remaining, forever burned into his mind, his heart and his soul.  
  
“Belle, Belle Belle,” he murmured, kissing the bite marks better, “Love you, so much... so much...”  
  
“I love you too,” she said, voice clearer, bringing his head up in both hands to look her in the eyes, “I always will.”  
  
“We can’t...” he sighed, bowed his head, stood back to help her down and sorted himself out without meeting her eyes, “Ever... this can’t happen.”  
  
“I know.” she looked at him, and the tears in her eyes were too much to bear.   
  
“You... we...”  
  
“I have to go.” she slipped away from him, head bent so her dark hair hid her tears, and he couldn’t bear it. He was a coward, he always had been, he looked for strength in others because there was none in himself. But he couldn’t let her leave, and think he regretted a moment, that he lied when he told her he loved her.  
  
“No.” his hand caught hers, and pulled her back to him, “I... no.”  
  
“What? You said we couldn’t do this again... and you’re right. I was... fuck, this was so wrong, horrible, I’m so sorry... I’m so...”  
  
“Stop it.” he said, quietly, cutting through her panic like a knife, “We can’t do this like this, ever again. I’m... it’s not right. So there’s only one choice.”  
  
“What?” she whispered, “What choice do we have? I can never see you again.”  
  
“Marry me.”


End file.
